BIKE RIDE ACROSS AMERICA / Where the corn is as high as this S.F. bicyclist's eye

Published 4:00 am, Saturday, August 5, 2006

It was dark and nasty looking, and swimming in it was not advised, but its oil slicks did not, as in the old days, spontaneously combust. This must be considered progress.

Lake Erie is what you see when pedaling across the top of Ohio, west to east. It's the big thing on the left. On the right are people riding their lawn mowers, which is what people do in Ohio when they can't swim in Lake Erie.

The other thing to do in Ohio, as in much of the Midwest, is watch corn grow. Ever since Minnesota, the corn has been creeping skyward as the bike creeps eastward. It's no longer shoulder-high. It's taller now than the top of a bike helmet. A waterlogged cyclist who takes a few steps into a cornfield for a bit of privacy from the eyes of passing motorists had better leave a trail behind, Hansel and Gretel-style, if he wants to find his way back to civilization.

The Midwest, which started somewhere east of South Dakota, is still hanging on through Ohio. The Midwest is not all cornfields. There are also soybean fields. After harvest, the farmers plant soybeans where the corn was, and corn where the soybeans were, to keep things interesting for next year's cyclists.

Airlines Under Fire For Splitting up Passengers Who Don't Pay ExtraBuzz 60

The Midwest also has dairy farms, Dairy Queens and immense front lawns that must be manicured by the aforementioned riding lawn mowers, as no self-respecting Midwesterner pushes a lawn mower anymore. All day long, Midwesterners ride the range on their lawn mowers.

They are a friendly bunch, too. In the West, a cyclist waves to passing freight trains. In the Midwest, he waves to passing lawn mowers.

Every once in a while, there are other things to do in Ohio, such as ride the world's second-tallest roller coaster or visit the homes of second-tier presidents. In the town of Fremont, in northern Ohio, is the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Center.

It can be tough to work behind the counter at the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Center, said a cashier who gave her name as Linda, because many people ask the same question.

Hayes, who wore a beard and bow tie and looked like other 19th century presidents, was a good president, as presidents go, Linda said.

"Most historians rank him around 14th or 15th best," she said, most earnestly.

There's a small museum, where you can see the spoon that Hayes ate his beans with during the Civil War, when he was a general. There's also a research library, for anyone wishing to conduct research on Rutherford B. Hayes. Nobody was inside.

Hayes, it turns out, was something of a trailblazer for the second tier. He lost the election of 1876, yet somehow got installed as president, after a special commission ruled on disputed ballots in Florida.

Just down the road from Hayes' place is Sandusky, home to an amusement park called Cedar Point, an establishment that juts into Lake Erie on a skinny spit of land, something like a hot dog on a stick. Cedar Point is generally regarded as the premier collection of roller coasters in the world. Near the entrance to the Millennium Force coaster, which was the world's tallest when it opened a few years ago, are no fewer than five warning signs.

Several hundred responsible people stood in line, nervously. The primary topic of discussion, while watching the trains scream down the 80-degree drop on the first hill, was whether they would soon be returning safely to planet Earth. Millennium Force is 300 feet tall and makes the glorious Santa Cruz coaster look like a highway speed bump.

While plunging at 93 mph, this reporter was made newly aware of his limitations. Within his wrenched and wretched gut, a Cedar Point cheeseburger managed to stay put, but it was a close call.

Such an experience was more jolting to the system than the record-breaking Midwest heat wave or than downtown Cleveland, a city located on a river that is hard to spell.

It's home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, a tourist attraction built in Cleveland after other places turned it down. Inside its display cases, permanently ensconced behind thick protective shields like the Hope diamond, are such treasures of the realm as the Diners Club card of Elvis Presley. In the gift shop are knockoff Roy Orbison sunglasses, at $10 a pair.

There was a special exhibit of Bob Dylan stuff, including a high school yearbook that a classmate had donated.

"My head's going round and round," Dylan had scribbled to his classmate on the back page of her yearbook. "I doubt I'll ever see you again after school lets out."

The Hall of Fame was another obligatory stop for most of the 40 do-gooder cyclists on this little coast-to-coast charity bike ride.

Ohio may be the Midwest, but it's more east than anything that came before it and only a week's ride before the North American land mass runs out and it's time to stop pedaling.

Riding a bike across country, everyone agrees, is way better than the 14th and 15th best way to spend the summer. It may even rank higher than the ranking of the second-highest roller coaster. Yet among this little group of cyclists, a curious snippet of conversation is being spoken of late.

"Only 500 miles to go," folks have begun saying.

Five hundred miles of cycling, otherwise way too much, is suddenly not enough. A lot of newly made close friends are due to say goodbye when they return to planet Earth next week in Washington, D.C., a tough enough place to regain one's bearings under ordinary circumstances.

It will be time for this reporter to say goodbye to the housepainter who helped him overcome a headwind in Washington, to the lawyer who knew the best way to change a flat tire in Idaho, to the FBI agent who helped him eat an order of bull testicles in Montana, to the teacher who shared the only bit of shade when it hit 117 degrees in the Badlands of South Dakota, to the middle-school janitor who taught this reporter some new harmonica riffs in Minnesota.

Riding a bike across country brings folks together as much as high school, with as much to endure. And when it's over, it's over.

This reporter, feet going round and round, doubts he'll ever see his classmates again after school lets out.